


drop dead sprint

by oct1en3one



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, M/M, profanity bomb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:17:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oct1en3one/pseuds/oct1en3one
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a convenience store, another bright stop in the city; it's somewhere north of 4 a.m., and the clerk is bored in the face of death and doesn't know it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drop dead sprint

**Author's Note:**

> What. Why.

It's a convenience store, another bright stop in the city, and Ryan stares at the gum, fingers curling and uncurling to fight shaking. Adrenaline still in his system and he's not wearing his mask, he feels a little strange, hyped up and exposed and it's somewhere north of 4 a.m. so everything's surreal. Sweat and the black face paint sting around his eyes and the bored clerk didn't even look at him twice, this is Los motherfucking Santos, Ryan is by far the most normal thing in a convenience store this time of night.

Except Ray, who bumps into him, lean Ray who's built like the rifle he favors. Ray's eyes shimmer-shine behind his glasses with that same adrenaline, but his hands are steady.

This clerk is bored in the face of death and doesn't know it. 

"Buy me something," Ray says, bumping into Ryan again, so Ryan smiles, big and toothy.

"You're the one who wanted to stop. You should be buying _me_ something."

"Asshole, it's all part of the escape plan."

"I thought that was my job."

"You're taking the night off."

"Oh, I am? Since when?"

"Since my plan worked and the cops missed us by about three blocks. And I wanted some Cheetos. Oh, hey, look, Cheetos. Convenient." 

It's not like they've never been in a convenience store (well, they haven't robbed this one, maybe, Ryan's not sure) and it's not like they've never been awake at this seedy hour, they are in the middle of escaping, the dreg ends of a heist and sure enough, over the comm, Geoff laughs about something, "Next time, we steal a Luxor to escape in comfort and style. Hell, we have the money, Jack, we should just go buy one."

"And _I'm_ the asshole?" Ryan asks and Ray grins, almost a leer.

"You got a little something on your face. Paint maybe?"

" _You're_ the fucking asshole. I ain't buying you shit."

"I didn't ask for shit, I asked for Cheetos."

“You _ask_ for stuff?”

“You’re taking the fucking night off, remember, stop with the fucking questions and buy me my fucking Cheetos.”

Jack's talking in the fluorescent hum background, “Why the fuck would you need a goddamn Luxor.”

“I already said: comfort and style,” Geoff replies, him and Jack halfway across the city. “Pay attention to me, fucker.”

“You’d crash into Mount Chiliad.”

“Perhaps. Maybe. You don’t know.”

“Yeah, I do,” Jack says, completely certain over the comm miles away from this convenience store that smells like all others, sugar and chemicals and dust, a bit like insomnia and melted cheese. 

Ryan smiles again. “Anything else you want.”

Ray thinks for a second and for some reason, it strikes Ryan that that’s what he looks like when he’s got an unfortunate brain stem in his crosshairs, or when he’s choosing what game to play next, or even whether or not to comment on Gavin’s freakish sense of humor. It’s pure Ray and Ryan feels like he’s standing a little too close, he steps away, “hey, they have Funyuns.”

“Nah, I want like six kinds of Cheetos and then we can go.”

“Goddamn, you’re demanding, wow.”

Smirking, Ray says, “I’m pretty, so make with the buying of junk food.”

Ryan raises an eyebrow and Ray waves imperiously at the chip aisle.

Somewhere out in the night, Gavin says, “Ray, I think you’re adorably handsome,” and Michael chimes in, “Such a fucking tasty little lollipop,” and Ray laughs, startling the clerk, Ryan sees him sit up behind his magazine.

“He hears voices,” Ryan explains in the clerk’s vague direction, but it’s north of 4 a.m., no one cares. There’s a gun pressed against his skin and Ray’s probably got at least two somewhere in his hoodie, he’s wandering the store with his hood up and Ryan’s face is streaked in paint and in Los Santos, everyone hears voices.

“Anybody want anything?”

“What’re you doing, fucking shopping? Jesus, uh, get me a sixer,” Geoff says and Jack makes a disgruntled noise, Ryan pictures him rolling his eyes, “Shit, wherever you are, see if they’ve got any—“

“Gavin’s craving chocolate,” Michael interrupts, “he’s getting _cranky _,” and faintly, Ryan hears Gavin, “Oh, ‘cranky’, am I, you wanna see cranky, Michael, I’ll give you cranky, I’ll crank something right up your arse,” and Geoff snorts, “What a sight to fucking behold, holy shit, wait until we get there, I’d love to see that. I will fucking _pay_ to see that.”__

"Like a goddamn donkey show,” Jack says and Ryan’s surprised, “Good _God_ ,” he’s not the only one, Ray makes this _what the fuck_ face at Ryan, “ _Holy shit_ ,” and Michael’s laughter almost covers Gavin gasping in the background, “Good lord, that’s so— _no_.”

Ray and Ryan are laughing in the middle of the store, over nothing apparently, that’s what it looks like, so Ray chucks tiny bags of cookies at Ryan, the clerk flips a page in his magazine, yes, they’re the regular crazies, not those wacky crazies who need the attention of the cops, nothing to see here, Ryan takes a bag of Chips Ahoy to the side of the head, move along.

Snickering, Jack says, “ _Anyway_ , I want cookies.”

That makes Ray laugh harder, Ryan watching him, glasses flashing underneath his hood, the grim reaper having a night out on the town.

Ryan snags a handbasket, dumps Cheetos and cookies and other random snacks into it, Ray scowling as he gets the beer can sixer out of the refrigerated section, letting the door close with a snap, and Ryan sees the thought cross Ray almost as soon as he has it himself.

They’re at the burnt ends of a heist, roaming in this single pool of fluorescent light at the corner of no-sleep and before-dawn darkness, the whole city outside is oblivious, they could _absolutely_ cut-and-run, maybe shoot up the place for shits and giggles, Ryan tilts his head, _wanna_ , and Ray shrugs back, scrunches his nose, _nah, no reason to_.

Ryan shrugs and they pay for their purchases like upstanding citizens, Ray jostling him at the magazine rack and Ryan don’t stand for that shit, he casually trips Ray, and they shoulder each other out the door into the parking lot. 

The car stares at them sightlessly, it isn’t really theirs, stolen simply for the heist, and across four lanes of traffic (dead this time of night) is a gas station, another bright stop in the dark puddle of the city. Ray’s staring over at the pumps as Ryan opens the driver side door, “Ray.” 

“Look at that fucking thing." 

A guy’s just pulled up, needing a refill, and his motorcycle gleams a hot red under the lights. 

“Akuma,” Ryan says and Ray nods, “Motherfucking _yes_.” 

Grinning, Ryan says, “Grab the bag and let’s go.”

They both like the new and shiny, how the city spreads itself out for the Fake AH Crew, taking everything they want however they want no matter what explodes, it’s a novelty, it never gets old. Ryan’s a planner, but Ray simply goes, he deals with everything that comes his way like it’s just another thing to do, Ryan’s lost count of how many times he’s heard Ray say ‘yeah, so that happened.’

They like a good down-and-dirty challenge, but this isn’t a challenge, gathering up their bag of weapons (the heist was light on launchers for once), shoving in the plastic bags from the convenience store, and walking away from the car, this isn’t the hard part as Ray tosses Ryan his mask, Ryan ducks his head to put it on and Ray pulls his hood forward more, crossing the dead black asphalt, wet with red splashes from the stoplight, to the gas station. The guy’s gone in to pay for his gas or buy skin mags, who the fuck cares, he’s shit-brick dumb enough to walk away from his cherry bike with the pump finishing up, with the keys dangling from the ignition, “this guy _deserves_ it, Ryan, holy fucking shit, wow, did I miss the sign, is this valet parking,” Ray mutters as the pump dings.

This is now their bike, so Ray puts the nozzle back in the pump, screws on the lid, Ryan already behind the handlebars, and Ray hops on the back, arms sliding around Ryan, fingers finding his ribs. Ryan feels him shrug around the bag he’s got strapped to him, then he says, “Alright, giddyup.”

The Akuma growls and Ryan navigates around the pumps, someone yelling behind them as Ray laughs in the dark. Then gunfire and Ray finds the gun pinching the curve of Ryan’s spine, pulls it and shoots back, then they’re roaring away, sticky tires catching the street.

Ray whoops, firing behind them, and this is usually the hard part, but there aren’t cop cars or sirens, they’re slinging through the night, the yellow of the streetlights dropping on them like a heartbeat. Ryan laughs, wind streaming around them, Ray adjusting, a hand shoved into Ryan’s jacket pocket as they lean into a turn.

This is Ryan’s version of heaven.

They don't have gods, or rather they have old gods, mean ones, money and blood and projectiles at high velocity, the way a bomb goes off, the way fire spreads, how adrenaline makes the world sharp and holy-fast, they know these gods give and these gods take away, quick as a bullet leaving a gun, quick as Ray kneeling to pull that trigger again and again, complete as his aim because he doesn’t miss. That hymn of noise when Ryan fits a launcher to his shoulder and fires, the hallelujah of the world breaking apart in a concussive blast, everything baptized and sanctified with blood, blessed be the name of the heist.

And this is another mean god in the pantheon, speed fizzing in Ryan’s veins, Ray yelling into the night, “FUCK YOU, AND FUCK YOU, AND FUCK YOU ESPECIALLY,” that push of acceleration, and the drag of gravity and awareness, they’re fucking _alive_ , nothing beats this feeling somewhere north of 4 a.m. and Michael says, “What in the fuck are you two doing.”

“We have an Akuma, are you jealous,” Ray says, all bouncy happy, and Geoff replies, “I could be jealous, if you wanted me to be, did you steal it,” and Ray talks fast, ecstatic, “Hell to the yes we did, the guy fucking left it at the pump, how could we _not_.”

“It’s _red_ ,” Ryan laughs and Geoff sighs with exasperated affection, “Well then, I’m jealous. Now get your asses over here.”

A cop car slides out of a side street they’ve shot past, lights whirring to life, the siren a little disgruntled sounding for so early in the morning, and Ryan frowns, “Oh goddammit,” and taking aim, Ray says, “We can outrun him, c’mon.” He fires once, the cop car swerving with a loud screech, so Ryan says, “Fuck it.”

He remembers how Ray said once with a smile, ‘The only way I'm getting out and leaving is if I die,’ and Ryan had wanted to punch him, it was such an invincible youth thing to say, but it's been two years and Ryan sees it now, he knows: the only way either of them are leaving is if they die. It's the crew, and even if there ever comes a time when they all retire to somewhere to do nothing but golf badly enough to scare the sweater-wearing civilians, or watch dumb movies and do dumb suburban shit, they're still criminals, they'll still keep their guns cleaned, wake at odd noises in the night, hallucinate sirens, and have insomnia that sends them to convenience stores at 4 a.m. and when they get there, they'll eye the place, how much cash can we take and get out with a bag of Doritos.

They won't leave this by choice unless it's that split-second raise-your-gun-and-fire and Ryan only hopes he can shoot the other fucker before the other fucker shoots Ray.

He’s not losing Ray because he’s discovered he’s way too invested in the scrawny asshole with the hand shoved in his pocket, fingers digging into Ryan’s body. With three more shots, Ray stops antagonizing the cop, “Ryan, c’mon, I believe in you and in speed, let’s _go_.”

He pushes the bike faster and in the momentum, it feels like Ray hugs a bit closer, the gun pressing against Ryan’s stomach, and that makes Ryan light-headed, he’s so gone on this kid, this piece of death’s soul with the dark eyes and hair, the glasses, the quick hands and love of controlled mayhem that equals Ryan’s instinctual chaos, and he takes a left turn fast, Ray saying, “Shit, _shit_ , you fucking whack job, _shiiiiiit_.”

The cop car finds them, is actually giving chase. “Oh my God,” Ryan says, as they flicker in the red and blue, “ _oh my God_ , what is this guy’s problem,” and he hears Ray yell, “OH MY GOD, SERIOUSLY, I WAS JUST KIDDING, I MISSED YOU BY A MILE.” Ryan laughs, how can he not, Ray’s going to kill him someday and it will be hilarious, he’s laughing so hard they’re slowing down. 

He stops in the middle of the street, he watches the stoplights turn green one at a time. 

Ray says, “Wait, what, no, Ryan, what’re you—“ then the cop pulls up next to them, his window down and his expression blown surprised, possibly by the skull mask and the gun Ray’s got pointed dead at him, then Ryan shifts his weight, plants his foot, and turns the bike, gunning it. Ray’s shoved against him, but he doesn’t waver, he fires and the cop’s partner fires back, a bullet whistling past, and _shit_ , he didn’t think that through, no one gets shot, no one’s been shot so far tonight, Ray’s recovering from the last heist two weeks ago when he crashed his car in the getaway and bruised his ribs, “shit, Ray, are you okay, I am so fucking sorry.”

They’re streaming back the way they came, Ray saying, “Hey, no, it’s okay, I’m okay, a little sore, nothing some recreational cop teasing can’t fix,” but he grunts before he continues, “There, pull over in that alley, up four and on the left.”

It’s between a Chinese restaurant and Indian take-out and it smells like old lettuce and hovering spices. Ryan eases the bike in, then turns around so they can face the street. Ray climbs off as the headlight dies, stretching, he scratches a bit, he’s wearing a big bandage hooked around his ribs to keep them from moving too much and they’ve just been in a chase on a motorcycle and Ryan would kick his own ass if he could.

He sits on the bike and sighs, shaking his head, fuck, he’d forgotten that under that hoodie Ray was injured, tonight’s heist was easy enough and Ray moved like he always does, fluid and contained, right where you need him to be in a fight. Ryan sighs again and Ray says, “What.”

“I forgot about your ribs.”

He forgets how goddamn easily they break, all six of them, hard down to and through the bone. He’s got a fresh scar in his shoulder, starburst, from a rival gang sniper Jack spotted from the air too late and Ray didn’t talk for two days about that, pissed that he hadn’t seen him, “ _I’m_ the fucking sniper and _I_ didn’t see him, that’s some cold fucking bull _shit_ ,” he sat in angry silence for two days while Ryan dozed around the drugs. Ryan doesn’t like to think about how he spends all his money, energy, and blood on people who break so easily (so hard) and sometimes so often, especially Ray; he doesn’t need to think about it, it’s what he does, it’s his life (he’s not getting out of this unless he dies). 

Here in the alley, Ray makes a _eh_ motion with his hands, “Adrenaline ran out, they’re bound to hurt at some point,” but Ryan shakes his head again, “We’re on a goddamn bike, it can’t be at all comfortable, maybe I should just get us a car—“

Then Ray’s suddenly next to him, giving him a small punch to the leg, and he taps at the skull teeth of Ryan’s mask, “take this off, Ryan.” The front tire squeaks as Ray tilts the handlebars out of his way, Ryan sliding the mask up, confused, then Ray’s kissing him.

Ryan kisses back before his brain breaks, holy _shit_ , he kisses Ray and Ray says against his mouth, “Y’know, you look like a goddamn supervillain with that motherfucking paint,” and Ryan laughs, amazed, “You know what you look like in that hoodie?”

“What, besides comfortable and good at hiding weapons. Oh, of fucking course, you meant pretty hot and tempting.”

“Um, excuse me, what may I ask are you two _doing_ ,” Gavin breaks in and Ryan scrunches his eyes closed, fucking _comms_ , Ray’s glasses press against his cheek, “god _dammit_ ,” and Geoff’s saying, “Yeah, _yeah_ , I mean, we’re _here_ , y’know, at the fucking rendezvous point—“

“Also known as my beautiful apartment,” Michael says and Geoff keeps going, “And y’all _aren’t_ here. We’re here, the rest of us, somehow, beyond belief or reason, _made it here_ —“

“At the rendezvous point,” Gavin says.

“Yes, thank you, Gavin, I already said that—“

“I’m reiterating it, reiteration makes your point _better_ , also like y’know, the rendezvous point, the point where we all rendezvous, after our awesome heist, the rendezvous point where we sit around with our bevs and our money—“

“No, Gavin, it’s where we get _shitfaced_ and roll around _naked_ in money,” Michael supplies and Gavin’s grin is obvious, “My little Michael, so smart, hey, boi, cheers, Michael,” and Geoff makes this low sound, an extended growl.

“Yes, thank you for your shitty contributions, _now shut the fuck up_ ,” Geoff spits, Jack laughing somewhere. Ray’s mumbling under his breath, “I’m gonna kill ‘em, starting with Gavin,” and Ryan whispers, “I’ll help you,” and Ray’s hands have snuck under Ryan’s jacket, under his shirt, he gasps a little.

Jack says, “So we’d just like to know where the fuck you are and if you’re planning on fucking joining us anytime soon—“

“What are you fuckers doing,” Michael asks and Gavin says, “See, reiteration, it’s _important_.”

“We’re making out,” Ray says, kissing Ryan again, the crew laughing and catcalling, then Ray pulls away as Michael singsongs, “Ray and Ryan sitting in a tree, F-U-C-K-I-N-G.”

“That sounds uncomfortable,” Ray replies, tugging Ryan’s mask down and Ryan adjusts it, Ray climbing on the bike, bag ready, hands in Ryan’s pockets again. He taps at Ryan and Ryan starts the bike, giddy and dazed.

“We’re on our way,” is all he can say, Geoff replying in approval, “Fine, we’ll start divvying up the money. Jesus, make sure we set aside enough for the Ryan and Ray Fuck Fund, holy Christ, if they don’t have enough for toys and lube, we’ll never hear the end of it.”

Ryan’s face is hot under the mask as they hit the road, Ray singing behind him, he can’t hear what it is; he’s happy and confused because Ray was so matter-of-fact, but that’s Ray, snarky and dry and he’s a criminal, they’re criminals, they take what they want.

Geoff and Jack loudly count money over the comm, each time with a triumphant “Ryan and Ray Fuck Fund” announcement and Ryan feels something, Ray’s face against his shoulder, as if he’s hiding, “what the fuck did we do to deserve this,” he says.

Laughing, Ryan is still embarrassed though, his criminal family fucking with them, he’s not embarrassed to like Ray, he’s just—fuck, he’s driving through the streets of Los Santos somewhere south of 5 a.m. now and Ray’s holding on tight and this is his life, he wouldn’t change it, this is his life even in his daydreams.

The streetlights thud over them as they ride, Ryan ignoring red lights and traffic laws, he’s in no rush but he really doesn’t care, and he suddenly remembers when Ray got hurt this last time, the others were wandering around somewhere, but Ray was awake for the first time after the drugs had worn off, so Ryan dished them up some ice cream, they were watching some shitty show on TV, and Ray said, ‘Y’know, I wonder what it’s like not doing this.’

It’s fucking _rough_ sometimes, it is, it’s really goddamn hard on all of them sometimes, the deafness for three days after an explosion went off early, the stitches and bruises, the close calls and what-ifs and split second _oh shit_ moments when everything seems like it’s dying, black smoke and the chop of helicopters and that surrounding wail of sirens, it’s really goddamn hard.

He spends his money, energy, and blood on these people who break so easily; when he dreams, he dreams of heists that go beautifully, the crew unhurt, explosions lighting up the sky, every bullet on time and on target; he dreams of the slow days between when they hang out and shoot the shit and play video games.

He’s only getting out when he dies.

“Ryan and Ray Fuck Fund.”

“Goddammit,” Ray grumbles, fingers clutching at Ryan in his pockets. 

“Well, now we have money,” Ryan says, light, and Ray laughs, shrugs against him, “Lemme buy you something nice, baby,” and Ryan snickers, slows to take the next right. 

(The funny thing is Ray spends his money on weapons and ammo and gaming, then spends the rest on the crew, buying them shit for the fun of it, his eyes sly behind his glasses when he gives Ryan a physics book about ballistics, "read up, bitch, maybe you'll learn something, help your aim,” he constantly buys Ryan books with some snarky comment, even cookbooks, “here, cook something for me. And make it good, I’m hungry, I might fucking pass out and then who’ll protect your ass? Gavin? I don’t think so.”

Ryan spends on the essentials – weapons, ammo, except when Ray or Michael give him sniper rounds and sticky bombs – otherwise, he keeps the crew happy, spending on his fellow gents to get the nicer things they like; he spends on the lads to acquire the fun, geeky things they like; and the rest he spends on Ray alone, feeling young and dorky and awkward, hiding stuff in with everything else, the snacks he likes in with the groceries, a quick side trip nets him that fancy next-gen FPS Ray’s been talking about and if Ryan wants to play it too, decimate his enemies, uh, the rest of the crew, then everyone wins, and holy shit, Ryan’s been too obvious, god _dammit_ , now he’s _really_ fucking embarrassed.) 

The apartment building’s just ahead and he clears his throat, says, “We’re here,” as they roll into the garage, mentally readying to detach himself from Ray and what happened in the alley if need be, he understands adrenaline and the thrill of the chase and all that, he’s a criminal, he can deal (it’ll be rough, they break easily, but it happens).

They park and immediately, he’s cold without Ray holding onto him, Ray setting the bag down with a little groan. Ryan picks it up, he’s a fucking gentleman after all, and he ducks to grab Geoff’s sixer (he can’t wait for Geoff to crack open one of those shaken cans), but Ray grabs him, stops him.

“Hey, Ryan, c’mere,” and he tugs the mask off, dropping it on the motorcycle seat. Then he kisses Ryan, thorough and deep, hands slipping into Ryan’s pockets again and that makes Ryan laugh into the kiss before someone says, “ _Really?_ ”

Michael and Gavin are standing there by the elevator. “Uh, you weren’t joking.”

“No, I was not joking, please fuck right the fuck off, I’d like to be fucking making out with Ryan right now,” Ray says, flipping them off, so Ryan does it for him, tips his head and kisses him again, warm for different reasons now, ignoring Gavin’s loud bewildered noises.

“So that’s the Akuma— _JESUS FUCKING CHRIST_ ,” Jack practically yells, the sound bouncing around the garage and Geoff starts laughing, “Well, they _are_ making out and the bike _is_ red, Jesus _fuck_. Is this free or is this pay-per-view, do I need to get my credit card.”

Ray rests his head against Ryan’s temple, emphatically saying, “ _WHO_ THE _FUCK_ DO I HAVE TO _SHOOT_ TO MAKE YOU _GO AWAY_ ,” and they jump to attention, except Gavin who’s self-preservation is poor and is inching closer to the motorcycle, and usually laid-back, eternally calm Ray points at him, “Gavin, that motorcycle is Ryan’s, I fucking stole it for this sexy motherfucker, I will fucking _annihilate_ you if _you touch that goddamn motorcycle_.”

Gavin meeps, Michael snickering, “well, god _damn_ , I think they’re in loooove, what is this shit, Geoff, can’t you control your crew,” Geoff spluttering, face bright and beaming, “Oh my _God_ , how is this—what, this is the greatest thing I’ve ever seen, best day of my fucking life,” and Jack grins with his arms crossed, _Christ_ , as if he’s giving his fucking blessing, “Or the worst day, just wait until they get jealous and start shooting people.”

Ryan wishes he had his grenade launcher, it’s so handy in situations like this.

Sighing, Ray presses a kiss to Ryan’s jaw, says, “We’re goddamn here at the goddamn rendezvous point, are you fucking happy. Look, beer.”

“Uh, yes, I’m happy, so happy for you crazy kids. We have money for you, the Ryan and Ray Wedding Bells Fund.”

Jack is laughing so hard he’s crying, Michael has a weird grasp on Gavin who’s still sneaking towards the motorcycle, and maybe something is better than this, maybe not, Ray shoves the beer at Geoff and grabs Ryan’s hand, dragging him to the elevator, where he smashes the DOOR CLOSE button over and over, leaving the others behind.

Ryan laces their fingers together and Ray shrugs, “Uh, yeah, I'm aware _we_ stole that bike, but. It's yours. So." He shrugs again. "Hey, I fell for the only guy in the crew who could kill me. Not smart, I know. Never said I was smart.”

Hiding a smile, Ryan says, “So you’re in love with Gavin.”

Ray is _aghast_. “No, I—what—“

“Well, I’m pretty sure Gavin is 'accidentally' dangerous, on purpose, no one’s _that_ inept and can still fire a gun pointed away from him. And Michael could beat you to death or blow you up, oops, the rocket launcher went off, how’d that happen. And Jack would just push you out of a helicopter and laugh. Geoff, well, he’d be all scheme-y and put you somewhere where you’d die in the crossfire, or he’d adopt friendly fire, he’s fucking sneaky like that. Actually, Michael and Gavin are too, and Jack would straight-up murder—Now that I think about it, do the guys want us dead?” Ryan knows how his crew could or would kill him, it’s one of the funnier things he daydreams about. He grins big.

Ray’s staring at him, eyes wide, the corner of his glasses smudged. “Wow, uh, well, _no_ , I fucking hope not. And second point, way to ruin the moment, ‘cause again _no_ , I meant you, you gigantic asshole.”

Ryan kisses him, hands in that soft hoodie, careful of Ray’s ribs, and his breathing is broken, but Ray says, “Not hurting, you stop and I shoot you,” so Ryan doesn’t stop until the elevator dings.

It’s just them in the apartment, the rest of the crew are lazy sons of bitches who won’t take the stairs and Ryan dumps the bag by the counter, Ray taking his hand again, then Ryan notices something.

“Michael forgot his keys.”

He smirks and Ray smirks back and see, this is why he likes Ray so goddamn much. They lock the doors and settle down on the couch with a bag of Cheetos and the remote, Ray with his legs thrown over Ryan’s lap. 

“So are we gonna roll around naked in money,” Ryan asks.

“No, well, we could, but I thought we’d roll around naked in Cheetos.”

“That’s one I haven’t tried. On the couch?” Ryan’s still a little giddy, how the fuck did he get this fucking lucky.

Ray nods, channel surfing, his fingers massaging at a spot at the base of Ryan’s neck. “Sure, Michael’ll have to burn it.”

“So it’s settled, we’ll christen every surface.”

“Can I shoot ‘em if they fucking whine about it.”

“Ray, would I ever say you _can’t_ shoot somebody,” Ryan replies, trying to steal the remote.

The TV stops on the Home Shopping Network, Ray grinning. “I’m rich, bitch, lemme buy you something nice, baby.”

**Author's Note:**

> Slight inspiration and key phrases from "Convenience Stores" by Buddy Wakefield. Anyway, I'd like to _reiterate_ , I’m using a mixture of personalities, game avatars, and personal appearance. It’s hyperstylized and fantastical. I mean no harm to anyone.


End file.
